Kingdom of God Page 2

  “You wanna wait ‘til he’s all grown up? When is that? When you’re seventy? This is coming one way or another. We all did our time down there, now you’re up to bat. You really wanna be there for your family, you really wanna protect them from these psychos? This is your chance. I know it’s a tough spot, but you’ll knock it out of the park. I know it.” The last of the guardsman entered the station, and the trucks’ engines stopped rattling. Callahan took a step toward Jen, who was still standing at the corner of the building. She was looking down at her phone. He turned back toward Michael.

  “Hey, what school did Evey get into?”

  “Santa Cruz.”

  “That’s great. Good for her. Give her my best when you get back.”

  Both Callahan and Jen rounded the corner and approached the station’s front entrance. Michael remained in the parking lot with the two binders cradled in his arms. He was the sole person outside the station.

  At 7:04 a.m. Sergeant Bishop stood at the dais at the front of the basement briefing room. He rested his right arm on the podium.

  “This meeting doesn’t directly relate to all of you. This is about the information we’ve attained and a dispatch down into Mexico. Only ten, eleven, twelve of you will actually head down there. Most of you will stay here, keep the peace, track down those that crossed illegally last night.”

  Over one hundred guardsmen and officers were packed inside. Every table and chair was filled. More police and military personnel lined the white, windowless walls of the briefing room. A loud buzzing emanated from the vents overhead. Wires and metal ducting dangled from the exposed ceiling. Michael stood beside Callahan and Jen near the room’s only door.

  “But of course this meeting affects you. What happened last night affects all of us. It took two of our brothers. So no matter what your assignment is, you do it with a full heart and a clear purpose. Because there are enemies knocking at our door, and they’re knocking loudly. You’re the protectors of this house. You keep it safe no matter what.” Many of the officers nodded.

  “I’m gonna hand it over to Detective Barrish. He’s our most senior guy, been with us almost thirty years. He’s going to be leading our dispatch down in T.J., so you hang on every work he says. Mike.” The sergeant stepped away from the podium. Michael shuffled toward the front of the room and placed the leather binder down on the dais. He pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded over to the door.

  “Can we, uh, get the AC and lights please?”

  The lights shut off and the buzzing ceased. A satellite image of the San Ysidro Port of Entry was projected on the whiteboard behind him. The picture displayed a large plume of smoke pouring from a hole underneath the crossing’s concrete canopy.

  “As, uh...you are aware, at 1907, an explosive detonated approximately nine yards from the San Ysidro Port of Entry. Six people are confirmed dead. Another thirty-six are injured. And about forty vehicles crossed the border without proper identification or clearance. Here is what we have ascertained from evidence collected by border patrol, FBI and precinct 714 last night. Techs estimate that five hundred pounds of a gasoline-based explosive detonated in the back of a white Chevrolet Express. The plates show that it was last owned by a church organization. It’s, uh...highly likely that the van was stolen, but we are trying to find any connection we can to the owners. All but one body has been moved from the blast site. It is a male in the driver’s seat of the van. Forensics is still looking for, uh...still looking to identify this man, and we are still determining if he is our main culprit.” Two officers seated in the front of the room diligently took notes. Every other officer and guardsman remained still.

  “We have not yet declared this an act of terrorism.” The room creaked. “We anticipate that it was premeditated. It was detonated at the highest volume of traffic, 7:00 p.m. on a Sunday. But we do not know if this an attack against the U.S. or Mexico, we do not know who the man in the driver’s seat of that vehicle is, and we do not have a motive.” Whispers echoed throughout the room.

  “But we have, uh...in the last few hours or so, we have identified a POI.” The image projected behind Michael changed to a large photo I.D. of a Hispanic man. His eyes were open wide, his hair was disheveled, and his head was tilted back to reveal a scarred chin and dry, cracked neck.

  “This is Julio de la Cruz. A few minutes before the explosion, de la Cruz was stopped at the border with a similar vehicle—a brown van—that contained five barrels filled with gasoline. We believe he was coordinating with others in a deliberate attack. After the blast, he ran south and was lost by border patrol and local law enforcement. De la Cruz is a Mexican citizen born between 1987 and 1988. He has been to the United States once on a work visa in 2014. Other than that, he has no known ties to any terrorist organizations, extremist groups or cartels.”

  Michael signaled toward the door again. The fluorescent lights overhead slowly flickered back on.

  “Our primary objective is to find de la Cruz and the source of the procured vehicle, starting with that church org. We will be sending a small expeditionary unit down to Mexico to conduct an investigation. If you have any questions-”

  “When do we deploy?”

  Michael looked around the room for the source of the question, but he could not find the man that uttered it.

  “This is not a deployment. This is a dispatch of investigative and security operations. PT and CISEN have requested that we not have troops accompany our investigative team, so we will need absolute discretion on this. We will move out at exactly 0900 after a manifest has been-”

  “Who’re you sending out?” a guardsman asked from the far corner of the room.

  “Your assignments will be posted. If you have any questions, you can report to your commanding officer or me. We will answer them as best we can.” The room started to fill to chatter as the officers and guardsman filed toward the exit.

  “One last thing.” Michael tried to raise his voice over the crowd. “You should not have any contact with the press or social media. Absolutely nothing leaves this room. Nothing...”

  His voice trailed off. The soldiers continued to march out of the room. As Michael gathered all of the papers off the podium, Callahan saddled up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey, good job.”

  “Yeah,” Michael sighed. “I’ll be director in no time.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about a thing down there. I’ve assigned our best man to help you out. He’s very driven, very results-oriented. Listen to everything he says, okay?”

  “What’s his-“

  “I mean it. Everything he says. His intel’s very reliable.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Don’t worry about it. He’ll correspond with you down south. Just stay safe.” He gave Michael another pat on the shoulder and turned toward the exit. Michael could see his friend lean over and whisper something in Jen’s ear before leaving the room.

  Michael exited the station and stopped before a line of light brown trucks and black-and-white cruisers idling on 27th Street. He scanned the pages inside a manila folder in his hands and spotted the MTVR reserved for him and the unit. He walked over the truck, opened the door and pulled himself up into the cab. Jen was already seated inside.

  The vinyl bench seat squeaked under the detective’s heavy frame. His sidearm pressed into his lower back. He removed the firearm and placed it in a compartment in the dashboard.

  The guardsman began piling into the back and securing their equipment. Michael peered through the small plastic window dividing the cab from the bed. He watched each officer as they took their places in back. The ten members of the unit appeared stoic. Their faces were shaved with their eyes trained on the floor. They all brandished black bands around their arms with the letters “JD” and “AR” stitched in white thread.

  Michael turned around and leafed through each page in the manila folder, connecting the names and faces of every guardsmen in the unit. The two seated
closest to the cab were Sergeants Devin Blaylock and Christopher Dowd. All of the other members were listed as privates and specialists. A large brown and black Belgian Malinois sat in front of Blaylock. The sergeant had a hold of the dog’s leash. Michael could hear its panting over the engine’s roar. The manifest listed the canine’s name as Bronco.

  The detective leaned over toward Jen.

  “Excuse me, Special Agent, uh...”

  “Chau.”

  “Chau. Have you ever been on an investigation like this?”

  “Yes, we looked into threats at a nuclear facility in Arizona.”

  “Was that a threat or an attack?”

  “It was a legitimate threat.”

  “Did you have a team of guardsmen like this?”

  “And women.” She tapped the folder, pointing to Kaylen Starr on the manifest. She was the only female in the unit. Michael turned around and attempted to find her. She was sandwiched between Privates Jeremy Peters and Thomas Garcia, obscured behind their bulky frames.

  “You’ll have about twenty minutes on the site to look for new leads. Then we’ll head straight for the consulate.”

  “How long have you been working with Joe?”

  “About nine months.”

  “Are you originally from here?”

  “Let’s keep it related to the case please.”

  “Fair enough.”

  * * *

  Two cruisers flanked the MTVR as it trundled down Interstate 805 toward the San Ysidro border crossing. Outside the passenger window, flowers, candles and hand-written notes lined on the guardrail on the southbound side of the freeway. More and more memorials appeared on the side of the road as they proceeded south.

  The truck came to a stop before an array of tents and pop-up canopies. An officer in fatigues stepped behind the truck and started screaming at the guardsmen in back. They swiftly poured out of the rear doors and rushed around the vehicle

  “That’s their staff sergeant,” Jen noted. “Don’t worry, he won’t be joining us down south.”

  Michael and Jen disembarked from the MTVR. The sergeant shouted at the two investigators to approach the first security checkpoint. They took their place in line behind the ten soldiers. Over a dozen police officers and FBI personnel examined their I.D.s, looked through their equipment and gave them each a pat-down. After passing through the first checkpoint, an Army ranger passed radios with headsets to both Michael and Blaylock.

  “I’ll be on the radio from this side,” Jen told Michael.

  “What’s with the other one?”

  “That’s for the sergeants.”

  “I prefer one line of comms.”

  “Excuse me, det,” The staff sergeant bellowed as he approached Michael. His voice overwhelmed the commotion inside the tents. “Sergeant Blaylock must be in constant contact with his C.O. I am his C.O. If you have any questions, please address them to me.”

  “Got it. I’m Detective Barrish by the-”

  “I should remind you that we are one unit. That’s what the word ‘unit’ means. One. Two commanders will not interfere with that unit. We have one mind and one goal.”

  “Got it, thank you.” Michael bowed his head as he inserted the earpiece into his right ear and proceeded to the next tent. Jen remained behind with a radio in hand.

  The unit assembled in a large white panel truck with plastic sheeting and decontaminants inside. Starr was led into another van with a sign stating “Women’s Changing” over the door. Michael took off his sweat-stained shirt and khaki pants while the guardsmen folded their fatigues. They handed their clothes to the clean room techs. They put on hair nets and shoe covers, then walked across a tacky mat and into another truck. They selected white latex gloves out of boxes, then moved on the shelf that contained the rest of the cleanroom suit. Michael selected a large. He threw on a white hood that caused the earpiece and microphone to dig into his cheek. Another officer helped him don the coverall. After stepping across another tacky mat, he put on second pair of gloves and a pair of clear plastic goggles. The officer inspected the suit before granting him permission to proceed. He stepped out of the truck with the unit in tow. Every guardsmen brandished M4 rifles at sling ready.

  As he exited the truck, he noticed Starr rejoining the group. Another woman adorned in a clean suit walked alongside her.

  “Is that you, Drea?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. Better if I didn’t have to get in and out of this thing ten fucking times.”

  “Can you watch your language around the site, please?”

  The group gathered at the last security checkpoint underneath a green canvas tent. Michael and Blaylock tested the radios. They heard Jen and the staff sergeant on the other side of the outpost.

  Standing before a dark green curtain, Drea told them to step left of the rubble and under the thinnest portion of the canopy. A portion of the overhang had collapsed following the blast, but engineers deemed it structurally stable. She warned that they should remain under the concrete beams in the event of a collapse. Michael nodded. Drea yanked the curtain open.

  The commotion behind them quieted. The unit stood under the shade of the concrete canopy. Michael’s breath rushed against the surgical mask over his nose and face. To his left, a mass of vehicles stopped just short of eight police cruisers and five fire engines on the northbound side of the highway. Their windows were shattered. The rubber seals around the doors had melted. The paint on their hoods and rear quarter panels was peeling away. The detective walked past the line of accordioned cars on his right. A steppe of nearly a thousand abandoned vehicles pointed north on the Via Oriente. Michael’s eyes locked onto the large gap surrounded by four burnt-out vehicles. He stepped toward the gap in the road. The guardsmen followed closely behind.

  The unit formed two rows behind the detective. A layer of gray ash crunched under their corrugated boot heels. They stepped out from under the canopy. Michael shielded his eyes from the midday sun.

  The dust started to float in the wind. Michael and the guardsmen hunched over and shielded their faces as the cinders blew up under their googles. A machine gun-like patter filled the air. A high-pitched ring in Michael’s hearing aid erupted. He attempted to turn it off under his hood, but he could not reach the dial. He peeled one eye open to see a black-and-white helicopter circling roughly a hundred feet overhead. Michael lowered his hand to his waist and pressed the call button on his walkie talkie.

  “Can we get rid of the helo?” The radio returned nothing but static.

  “Negative.”

  “Well can we get it higher off the deck?”

  “That height’s for aerial surveillance.” He moved his hand away from the radio. He continued his march toward the gap in the roadway.

  Cracked layers of asphalt appeared at the edge of the still-smoldering crater. Dozens of white markers numbered 1 through 467 littered the area surrounding ground zero. The van’s cab rested on its front bumper ten feet away from the crater. The tires were melted. The rubber poured off the wheels. The two passenger windows were shattered. A white sheet covered the roof, windshield and doors. The frame, floorpan and metal surrounding the front seats remained intact.

  Michael faced Drea and pointed to the white sheet covering the cab. She took a few steps forward, grabbed the sheet and pulled it away. The charred remains of the driver appeared behind the steering wheel. Its head bent back against the headrest. Its mouth was open wide. The bright white teeth shined against its black, charred skin. The smell wafted under Michael’s mask. He turned back toward Drea.

  “Can I get shots of the cab here and the ground around it?” Her shoulders sank. She dropped the sheet, unzipped the top of her coverall and removed a thin black camera. She snapped several pictures of the corpse inside the cab and the surrounding crater. Michael stepped around the cab and peered at the passenger door. It was open wide. The latch looked undamaged. He put his hand on the radi
o again.

  “Was the passenger door open on detonation?”

  “One more time.”

  “Was the passenger door open on detonation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we confirm if anyone or anything came out then?”

  “We’re still looking for that footage.”

  Michael twisted around and faced Drea again.

  “Did you get samples off the door?”

  “Yeah, at least a hundred of ‘em.”

  “Can you get them again please? Before any more tar contaminates them?”

  Drea stomped around a few guardsmen on the way to the passenger door. A gust of wind caused her to stumble. The helicopter lowered and turned south. The whipping sound of its rotors grew louder. A few of the numbered markers blew away in the gust. The shrill ringing in Michael’s hearing aid continued. More static came over the radio.

  “Repeat that, over.”

  “Unknown, unknown,” the staff sergeant screamed on the other end of the line. “We have an unknown on the road about fifty yards out.”

  Michael spun around and surveyed the site. Blaylock yelled at the other guardsmen. The unit raised their rifles to high ready and formed a circle around the detective. Drea screamed, dropped the camera and ducked beside the crater. The floating ash obscured Michael’s view.

  “I don’t see anything. Do you have visual?” He pressed the headset deeper into his right ear.

  “Fifty yards out.”

  Michael looked south. Around the slight bend in the road, a figure in black walked north on the Via Oriente. Michael shielded his eyes to get a better look at the figure. Blaylock and Dowd broke out of the circle and sprinted south with their rifles trained at the figure. The rest of the guardsmen followed.

  Michael ran after the unit. The unknown figure was now twenty feet away. He was a middle-aged man wearing large reflective sunglasses and a black jacket over a maroon-colored t-shirt. He sported wavy, medium-length brown hair combed to the right. The sunlight reflected off of the greasy, sunburnt skin on his face. He maintained a casual gait as he made his way up the road.